Alone
by CloudCuckooLandHasAQueen
Summary: Sometimes, even the hardest working pathologist needs a day off from the rest of the world.
1. Alone

**So it's been a while guys. Sorry about that. I've really got no real excuse other than I've been trying to prevent myself from being homeless and all that working stuff. I'm almost done with school, which is exciting, but it means that I've been super busy. That's probably what inspired this.**

Buzz.

Buzz.

Buzz.

Molly sat, staring at her mobile as it vibrated. The name lighting up was the name she thought she could ignore. Obviously, Sherlock wanted her for some reason or another. The phone kept buzzing. She sipped her vodka soda thoughtfully. Maybe he was turning her into an alcoholic. It was noon after all and most people would think that was a little early for anything harder than a beer or perhaps a glass of wine. Yet the moment she walked through the door, her phone started buzzing and she decided that she really needed a drink.

Buzz.

Sip.

Buzz.

Sip.

Buzz.

Sip.

This time the call was coming from John's phone. She waited it out. The primary difference between John and Sherlock was that John would have the courtesy of leaving her a message. There was no message, only yet another call from Sherlock's phone.

I NEED YOU NOW—SH

I KNOW YOU'RE IGNORING ME—SH

MOLLY—SH

IF YOU DON'T PICK UP SOON, I'M GOING TO ASSUME YOU'RE HURT AND WILL COME OVER—SH

YOU ARE BEING UNCHARACTERISTICALLY IRRESPONSIBLE—SH

Molly didn't think he would dare, but she figured that she never really knew. Slowly, she stood up and tipped a chair against the handle of the front door, after locking and chaining it. She went around to all of her windows, locking them, closing the blinds and the curtains and then returned to the table where her phone kept buzzing with new calls and messages. Sighing, Molly poured herself another drink.

Molly always fancied herself a dreamer. Ever since she was little, she wanted to believe in fairies, in God, in gods, in ghosts, and then when slowly, each and every bit was edged away, all that was left was a logical mind—one that was Hell bent on avoiding Sherlock. He was the last mythical creature that she could bring herself to believe in. His ways were based purely in his own form of logic, but like smoke and mirrors it was a magic show that Molly felt like she could participate in.

Nothing brought on this realization, other than waking up that morning and deciding that she was not going to dress and she was not going in to work. She didn't want to attend real life at all today or tomorrow, or the next day, or for all of eternity for that matter. She knew she would have to go to work with some sort of excuse that Sherlock would see through—but what is it that he would see? She didn't even really know herself, other than the fact that she wanted to stay home.

Buzz.

Sip.

Buzz.

Sip.

Buzz.

Maybe she should get a new job.

Buzz.

Sip.

Buzz.

Sip.

Maybe she should just drop off the edge of the world and go somewhere she hadn't been before like the United States, or Canada.

Buzz.

Sip.

Buzz.

Sip.

Her drink ran dry again. A melancholy tone seemed to go through her flat, despite the lack of music, sad or otherwise. She filled and mixed her third one that day, and then tipped her head back, downing it in almost one go. Getting pissed alone wasn't the same as going out with friends, not that she had done that in a long time either. They were still pretty angry about the whole Tom thing. Dating a friend of friends was something that broke a dynamic. Breaking up with a friend of friends while he was doing everything to declare his undying love for her probably shattered it. Molly couldn't really bring herself to care about that. But the difference between drinking with friends and drinking alone was that the weight she felt in her limbs wasn't thrown up in the air. It just sat there, pooling in her extremities, even as she laughed.

Another drink.

Another buzz.

Another sip.

"One should not have an existential crisis while drinking." She giggled, "Suddenly sticking rocks in your pocket and walking out into the river becomes so much more appealing." Toby looked up at her, blinked, and then resumed being wholly disinterested in his owner, as per usual.

Buzz.

Buzz.

Buzz.

Sip.

She picked it up with every intention of answering it to tell Sherlock to shove off but somehow the phone ended up in the refrigerator—in a pitcher of lemonade. That was a perfectly normal reaction to not wanting to take a call, wasn't it? Molly would like to think that she was well adjusted for someone who wasn't hugged enough as a child, has traumatic memories of bullies, and liked dead animals. Perfectly normal. Perfectly normal, which is why she could somehow justify drowning her mobile phone in lemonade.

Toby looked at her like she was going insane.

"In all likelihood, I am." Molly replied cheerfully, "But that's never stopped me, has it?"

She could start singing songs from Les Miserables to pass the time.

She could start writing fanfiction to avoid the inevitable truth of the meaninglessness of her existence and the reality of needing to go and immerse herself in an alternate universe where she would likely die in a second if she were actually a part of it or STILL be unimportant due to her inherent pathetic nature

She could start a food blog.

There were all these possibilities! If only she could get herself to cross the room and grab her laptop. It was all the way on the coffee table. It wasn't like it was crossing the English Channel but it seemed just as daunting all the same. Maybe she could train to cross the English Channel. That would be a trip—and cold. Then again the last time she tried to write a blog, things went south really quickly with the whole Jim—James—Moriarty—Gay—Psychopath—Incident—s—plural.

"At least Tom wasn't a psycho. Right Toby?"

Toby ignored her. Even her own cat didn't like her that much.

"Hmmm. I dodged a bullet on that one. To think, I actually could have been happy." Molly giggled, "Then I wouldn't be me anymore, now would I?"

Finally, she willed herself to cross the room and open her laptop. Her fingers felt like sausages as she tried to type. She knew better than to get on any social media sites. It was likely that Sherlock would decide to spam them, or she would write something that she would regret. She was already intending on doing that but decided to open a word document instead.

She still didn't know what to write.

She could practice writing a proper suicide note before she could do it on paper with her best pen, to immortalize her last words for the ages but that would require an actual wish to die, which was frustratingly absent.

She could write the next great novel, worthy of several great prizes and an award ceremony where she would act like she didn't expect to win, but actually have already known because they made sure they knew how to say her name. That would require having any finesse for the written word, which she lacked.

She could write a grocery list. God knows she needed more vodka. And maybe some gin. Oh and orange juice. She ran out because she accidentally poured too much while languishing about the possibility of going to work.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Molly rolled her eyes and closed her laptop, returning to the kitchen table to pour another drink. She was drinking like Hemmingway, without the talent. The knocking turned into thumping, which turned into picking the lock, which turned into shoving against the door until the chair finally broke free and clattered against the floor. Sherlock stood there in all of his glory, his long expensive coat open like a cape as he walked in.

"Where were you?"

"I took the day off," Molly replied easily, "Would you like a drink?"  
"There was a triple homicide—"

"Don't care."

"What?"

"I don't care."

"Molly—"

"It doesn't really matter to me anymore. Helping you, that is. Why should I help you? You'll just figure it all out eventually anyway. I don't feel like being used as a short cut anymore."

"Molly—"

She hummed loudly, twirling the glass around thoughtfully, "Maybe I should quit."

"You're not making any sense."

"I'm making perfect sense, Sherlock. You're just not keeping up." Sherlock blinked at the familiar words being thrown into his face. "Hmmm—alcohol removes stuttering—and all that stupid nervousness—works better than the pills, don't you think? I'm well on my way to becoming an alcoholic."

"Molly, why did you take the day off?" Sherlock asked, rubbing his forehead as if she was the most puzzling thing at the moment.

"Because I wanted to be alone, Sherlock. Wasn't going to be taking any calls."

Sherlock scanned the room, another question forming on his lips. "Where's your phone?"

"In the lemonade."


	2. Not So Alone

**I couldn't sleep last night, so I decided to write a part two. I don't own Sherlock. If I did, I would be very dangerous indeed and Irene Adler would have been completely different.**

In Molly's experience, the best hangover cure was actually a simple one, with a basis in science to solidify it. A tall glass of water with lemon juice and cucumbers (it helped make it taste better and go down faster) followed by a can of tomato juice were to be consumed before coffee or any other caffeinated beverage was allowed into her system. Since she was able to prepare all of this in the second stage of the hangover (actually being able to get up) Molly was pretty sure that she was developing alcoholism. That's what she got for letting a Consulting Detective sleep on her sofa.

She had no idea why he was there or what she could have possibly said to him the night before to convince him that he needed to put an indention in the drab cushions with his bony skeletal system poking through. He was up the moment that she opened the door, staring at her with that usual uncomfortable cat like scan. She was starting to regret ever deciding to stay home the day before, epiphany about the universe or no, she still had an idiotic detective clinging to her painfully shriveled heart.

"You said you loved me."

"Yeah?" Molly stumbled over to the coffee maker and pressed the button for it to begin. She felt his eyes on her as she prepped her special hangover water and downed, it, encouraging the room to spin a little less. Too tired to be mortified, Molly wondered how an anguished and definitely no doubt drunken declaration of love was anything surprising. She always had been pathetic. She had even been considering writing Fanfiction (At her age? How appalling). Molly was so immersed in her thoughts that she almost didn't hear the next part.

"And then you said you hated me."

"Well that's not exactly surprising either!" Molly snapped, despite herself, instantly regretting opening her mouth two wide. She decided to hide by taking a large sip of tomato juice, watching Sherlock watching her.

God why was he always watching?

It had gotten worse ever since the Moriarty scare, ever since—NO—Molly was not going to think about it at all. It was nothing. He was just a figment, a mere excuse to keep Sherlock in the country—she hoped. Really, nobody told her anything about anything whatsoever, so for all she knew, they were all fucked.

"Molly are you okay?"

Two, maybe three or four years ago, Molly would have welcomed that question with open arms. It would have been the ultimate sign that Sherlock noticed her if he wondered about how she was. She wanted nothing more than for him to leave her flat and leave her life and never return. That was a lie. She wanted him to stay forever. It felt like her mind was tearing itself apart, simply in trying to _move on. _She didn't realize how many sleepless nights she would get because she found love. Molly had never really loved before and thought that if the ache was eased then maybe, just maybe, things would get easier. Unrequited toying love was not what she pictured in her more desperate moments.

"Sherlock why did you call me?"

"I left a voicemail."

"You're not answering the question."

"I left a voicemail and you—"

"Deleted it. I know. You never call me. I was at work, I wasn't expecting a call from you so you left a voicemail—I listened to it, and then I deleted it." Molly bit her lip, "Then he was all over the telly—"

"We're going over pre existing information, Molly." Sherlock seemed just as frustrated as Molly was at that moment.

"That's because you won't tell me what happened! First Mary goes and shoots you and—"

"How did you know that?"

"I FIGURED IT OUT!" Molly screamed, slamming her coffee mug down so hard she thought it would crack. It didn't, but the effect didn't go unnoticed. "I'm. Not. That. Stupid."

"I never said you were—"

"You think everyone is stupid. Everyone except people insane enough to play games that ruin people's lives—oh but you're the exception because you try to stop them—lives are on the line after all! I know this! I know how you think, believe it or not, but I am baffled, absolutely baffled—and baffled is the exact word I want to use—because I don't know why you called me. Were you about to die? Did it make you feel better, calling me? Sherlock you—"

"I killed a man. I had my reasons and I killed a man. They gave me a mission two weeks ago. Six months, they said."

Molly nodded, "So I was right again."

"—Yes. You were right again." Sherlock admitted this all without once taking his eyes off her. "Always are, in a strange way—"

"You make everything so difficult." Molly cut him off.

"You make everything that's daunting to me easy, Molly. You count so much. You are vital."

Molly moved for the first time, slouching on the couch beside him, "If I—if I matter so much, why did you wait?"

"Pride."

"Cowardice."

"I think sometimes, those can be regarded as one and the same."

"Arguable."

"It's the truth, though." Sherlock didn't seem to know what to do with his hands. "Do you hate me, Molly?"

"You choose to focus on that—"

"Focus. Do you hate me?"

"Sherlock it's too early—"

"I deserve it, in all honesty, but I want to hear you say it—"

"Do I hate you? That's a good question. Why don't you deduce it? You've never had a problem with that before."

"That was a long time ago."

"It still burns." Molly sighed. "That's not important now—I just—I don't know what to say or do."

He took her hand in his, a monumental gesture for a man with an aversion to

"You don't hate me." Sherlock said at last.

She felt like crying suddenly. Even the most brilliant man she had ever met had trouble figuring out what to think of her. She wondered what the whole point of any of this was. Why did he call her? Why did she ignore him? Why did she decide not to go in to work? None of it mattered. Molly and Sherlock sat side by side, and Molly had never felt so lonely before.

"No. No, I don't."

Sherlock seemed relieved. "Good."

"Good?"

"Yes. Good." Sherlock nodded abruptly, staring straight ahead at the wall above the television. "Now that we have that settled, there's something that we need to address."

"What?" Molly hoped he wasn't going to bring up the voicemail yet again. She still wasn't ready for that.

"Will you get coffee?"

"You are such a large child."

"That isn't an answer."

"Sherlock, it's literally over there." Molly pointed to the kitchenette.

"You always get me coffee."

"Not this time." Molly sighed, "Will I always be stuck with you, Sherlock?"

He laid his head down in his lap, encouraging to stroke his hair like her cat, "Most likely. There's worse people to spend the rest of your life with. Like that Tim fellow."

"Tom." Molly found herself unable to correct him as harshly as she did before. "Don't talk about him like that please."

"He was just a poor copy."

"No—Sherlock. He was Tom. Tom Bailey."

"Why did you end it with Tom Bailey then? You could've been married by now, go fatten up somewhere in the country and have three offspring that would likely have his pathetic brain—"

"He wanted to leave London. I didn't."

"Why?"

"Because London's always been home."

That was something that Sherlock and Molly could agree on, one hundred percent of the time. Neither liked straying far from the city that baptized them by fire and raised them on chips and chaos. She found solace in that kinship, at least. There were other people that haunted the same places she did, that never really wanted to leave as well. They didn't look at her judgmentally when she said that she had no aspirations to travel, or go to the country and have a family. Sherlock could be horrifically bad at jumping to conclusions but he never jumped to those. The man had a map of London ingrained in his head that he updated yearly. London was London. Molly ran her hand through his hair, heaving a deep sigh as she waited for his response.

Instead, he took her wrist and pressed a kiss against her palm.

Molly's breath hitched.

"Do you want to be alone today as well?" Sherlock, asked, "Or will you go get coffee with me?"

"Sherlock, there's coffee over—oh."

"For a clever girl, you can be so slow." Sherlock rose again, his eyes meeting hers.

"For a genius, you can be stupidly vague." Molly retorted.

He leaned in and kissed her cheek, and then the corner of her mouth, "Did I mess up this time too?"

"Not yet."

"Sorry."

"For what?"

"For all the times I will in the future." Sherlock kissed her gently. Molly hesitated at first, but then wrapped her arms around him. Joke or not, Moriarty or no Moriarty, the goodbye she deleted, or the man in front of her, Molly really wasn't alone, no matter how hard she tried.

_Molly—I'm afraid that I don't have much time to say everything I wish to say and don't even know what I wanted to say—there's something about you that always makes me like that, I don't know what it is. Whatever it is, it's not good for evolutionary purposes, I don't think. I have to leave again, and I don't think I'm coming back this time—in fact, I know I'm not. I apologize, Molly, for not apologizing sooner, for not explaining anything—for being me, basically. You've never been afraid of just dealing with me and for that I love you—just—I don't know. I'm so, so sorry._

Molly knew it wasn't all a dream when she had to fish her cellphone out of the lemonade. Sherlock had slowly become a person to her, not a mythical, unattainable being that could do anything in the world. She supposed that he wasn't the only one not to see the other as a person. Everyone made mistakes after all.

**I think Molly would have trouble with a very vulnerable Sherlock. She probably only got a peek at it when he had to fake his death. If Sherlock had gone as far as to leave that voicemail when he thought he was never going to see her again, it would have messed with her mind.**


End file.
